


Beneath the Suit

by imanadultiguess



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, And there's some mention of child bombers, Body Worship, Fluffy as hell, M/M, So if that bothers you maybe don't read., So they have weird kinks, These are bad guys, body image issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2015-01-09
Packaged: 2018-03-02 12:19:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2811764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imanadultiguess/pseuds/imanadultiguess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's no secret that I admire The Boss, that the reason I constantly put my life on the line for the suicidal motherfucker is because I want to preserve that insanity and that brilliance.  </p>
<p>But there's one fault in the psyche of Professor James Moriarty.  Only one thing that makes him doubt himself, brings him to my flat in the middle of the night.</p>
<p>His tummy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "You're So Changeable."

**Author's Note:**

> Set just before the pool scene at the end of Series 1.

For the most part, nothing gets to The Boss. He is cold and calculating; he is extreme capitalism, entrepreneurship, and sadism packaged in a silk cream-colored tie and Ray-Ban sunglasses. He could have been the perfect soldier if he'd had the appropriate physique, but instead he's the perfect businessman. The perfect murderer. Fucking brilliant.

It's no secret that I admire The Boss, that the reason I constantly put my life on the line for the suicidal motherfucker is because I want to preserve that insanity and that brilliance. 

But there's one fault in the psyche of Professor James Moriarty. Only one thing that makes him doubt himself, brings him to my flat in the middle of the night. 

His tummy. 

Yes, the Napoleon of Crime, the Consulting Criminal, the only one whom Mycroft Holmes - Mr. British Government - ever feared, doesn't always make it to the gym, and sometimes he buys expensive puddings when a problem isn't easily solved, and sometimes he drinks a bit too much when it's time to celebrate. He's certainly not fat, not even chubby, really. It's just his belly. Beneath those expensive silk shirts and Reiss suits is a not-entirely-flat stomach. Just a tad flabby. 

No one gets to see it except me, and I love it. It's fucking adorable. Every inch of the man who is Moriarty is prim and pressed and proper, all smooth edges and matching shoes. Even when that armor comes off, his posture is one of absolute power, his eyes darker than the deepest pits of Hell. It's all cold reasoning and controlled madness, and _damn if he's not the scariest little shit I've ever seen._

And sometimes, he's almost shy, poking angrily at his tummy like a child. 

He bursts through my living room door, and while I am not as smart as he is, I don't need to be a genius to know that his "date" with Molly Hooper did not go as planned. He's huffing and puffing and slamming doors and ordering executions in Finnish. I listen to him shattering lamps and mirrors throughout my flat, tossing chairs against the wall as he makes his way to my bedroom. I wait patiently until he's tired himself out, and the sounds of destruction have stopped. I know better than to interrupt The Boss's tantrums. I'm not his first body guard. He just hasn't killed me yet because I know how to handle him. You have to be careful when you're dealing with The Devil. In terms of brute strength and marksmanship, I could run circles around him, but in terms of manipulation and wits, Jim could have me on my knees at any time. 

And that makes my heart race, makes my mouth water. The danger of being so close to Jim Moriarty is delicious, and I can't get enough of it. Even as I open the door to approach him, I know that I could be signing my own death warrant. I tense my thighs, trying to will away the arousal that is becoming more and more evident.

When I open the door, he's splayed across my bed, leaning against the headboard. The way he twirls his pistol tells me it is fucking loaded. Oh, Jim... His bottomless eyes are staring into space. "What do you want?" he asks, his voice void of feeling. It goes straight to my groin. 

"What's wrong, Boss?" 

His eyes suddenly bore into mine, the business end of the weapon pointed straight at me. Or so he thinks. I'd never tell him, because while I get off on danger, I don't get off on pain, but he's got a habit of of inadvertently shifting his aim to the left just before he pulls the trigger. The bullet would pierce my shoulder, not my heart. I've had worse wounds. 

I don't look away from him, standing my ground, until he rolls his eyes and tosses the pistol against the wall. 

I fucking love how unafraid he is, how purposely careless he can be because he fears nothing, not even death. I kneel on the bed, and part of me wants him to fight me, what I'm about to do. Overpowering the man is the most amazing thing I've ever done, because ultimately, I haven't won, he's just submitted. At any moment, he could stab me in the neck with that weird fox pin/mini-dagger he keeps near his chest at all times. It's poisoned, I know that much, but I don't know with what. The point I'm trying to make is that Jim could kill me even when I'm "winning." It's hot as hell and equally as terrifying. 

"Boss?" I prompt again. 

Still nothing. I can hear my heart pounding in my ears as I wrap my arms around his waist and pull him into my lap. He curses and thrashes, but it's all for show. I think. I'm still alive, and if someone is alive this close to Jim Moriarty, it's only because he's allowed it. "C'mon, Boss," I say, and that seems to soothe him. He stops wriggling and settles back against my chest. 

He smells different, has used a different cologne and bodywash to sell the Jim from IT act. I don't like it, but I've never been fond of his disguises. I love my Jim, the psychotic Jim who regularly kidnaps small children for exorbitant sums of money and organizes wars at the behest of weapons-makers. He's wearing this absurdly soft Egyptian cotton t-shirt, and I can't stop myself from rubbing my cheek against the material on his shoulder. He's a solid weight on my thighs and groin, but not heavy. It's oddly comforting, the weight of him, the feel of him in my lap. Despite physically being four inches shorter than me, he is somehow...more. His presence takes up more space, takes the air right out of the room. And yet somehow, all of that can be contained in my lap. I can see his long eyelashes fan as he blinks, can smell his aftershave and toothpaste, which he never changes, because he has sensitive skin and is particular about his teeth. How can this terror incarnate be so fragile? 

"I'm fat," he grumbles. 

"You're not fat, Boss." 

"Yes, I FUCKING AM, SEBASTIAN!" he shouts, rage frothing up from seemingly nowhere. I can feel his skin heating up as his blood boils. 

"Did Hooper say something?" I ask, running my hand over his chest and belly. "Do I need to rip her throat out?" I nip at his ear. "You could wear it to that meeting in Budapest." 

"No!" he yells manically. "She didn't _say_ anything. She _pinched_ my stomach. Playfully!" He spits out the words, sounding thoroughly disgusted. "She _playfully_ pinched my tummy!" 

"So?" 

"So! So she was able to because there was enough fucking adipose tissue there!" He reaches for a pillow and hurls it at a mirror.

And that gives me an idea. 

I nibble at the hairline of his neck and he shivers. If I wanted to, I could sink my teeth into his flesh, and if he wanted to, he could headbutt and knock me the fuck out. (This fucker has no fear of pain. I don't think he even feels it.) But he remains compliant. He trusts me enough to let my teeth scrape the sensitive places of his body, and knowing that is enough to get me buzzed. "I think you're fucking gorgeous, Boss." 

He grumbles. It may be in German, but it may also be gibberish. He can be such a child sometimes. 

"I do." I kiss his shoulder. "So perfect. Like a tiger." 

He snorts and snaps back, "Sentiment." He brings his shoulder up with enough force to make my eyes water. 

I slide one hand down to rest on the tiny swell of his stomach. My perfect Boss. All murderous and monstrous beneath this soft, somewhat pudgy exterior. In Iraq, it was always the child bombers I admired the most. Bright eyes and pudgy fingers and soft giggles as they took out my men. Perfect dichotomy of innocence and evil. It fucking terrified me.

Just like Jim.

"Soft," I say, running my fingertips beneath his navel, "and beautiful and powerful." His hand grips my wrist, tight enough to cut off the circulation, but he doesn't remove my hand. He permits me to touch the area he is most self-conscious about. "I think," I continue, whispering in his ear, "it's so unbelievably sexy that in one breath you can, with one word, blow up a building and in the next, you can flash that winning smile and order a chocolate frappe." 

I feel the tension melt out of his shoulders. I am so painfully hard. I pull him further back, pushing my hips against his bottom so he can feel my arousal. "I think you're sexy as hell."

He pouts, evidence that he still requires some convincing. "Sherlock's thin, and everyone thinks he's gorgeous." 

"That's no surprise, Boss. People are boring. Sherlock is boring. It's so cliched. Scrawny, cocaine addict, taking cases from NSY to quiet his OCD. So boring. So dull." I trace a line up his chest. "But you are full of surprises. Beautiful eyes, unforgiving gaze...lighting up whenever we pass a sweets shop. Watching you cackle through a bite of biscuit as your flick blood off of your perfectly polished shoes. You are never boring, Boss. You change from moment to moment. You're so changeable." I can tell that gets to him when his body tenses, a sign of the arousal growing in his core. "I'm addicted to you, Boss." 

"You're addicted to adrenaline rushes." He sounds doubtful, but when I grasp his budding erection, he gasps and lets loose this soft whimper. 

"Can I fuck you, Boss?" I keep my voice soft and high, almost submissive. I always have to be careful at this stage. Sometimes I misread his signals and end up with very sore bollocks.

He rolls his head side to side, mulling it over. "Why?" he asks boredly.

I lick behind his ear, and he shivers. "To show you. Show you how much I adore your body. Show you how delicious you are. Show you how I see you." I look back at the mirror that he'd thrown the pillow at.

He shrugs. "Don't disappoint me, Moran." 


	2. "Say It, Boss."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Body positivity! Because Sebastian Moran is a surprisingly caring and attentive boyfriend.

Jim Moriarty's body is positively delicious. There's still some definition above his belly, in his chest and arms from his swimming days. It's a gorgeous juxtaposition of power and comfort. He keeps himself well-groomed, and by that I mean that his chest, belly and groin are hairless and soft. And my hands are so _drawn_ to that smooth, warm skin. The rough callouses on my hand bring his blood to the surface, turning that white skin pink.

And fuck if he doesn't smell fantastic, like coffee and chocolate and apples. A strangely sweet scent for MI6's most wanted, but it suits him. 

Granted, I've seen shapelier arses, but his isn't so bad. A little flat, but firm. 

Once I've slipped off his clothes, and prepared him with my fingers, I undo my own flies. As much as I love the sensation of his skin against mine, I want him focused on his body, not mine. By most standards, I have a great body. Broad shoulders, small waist, tight arse, muscular thighs, and abs like a Grecian statue, but that's what Jim pays me for, to be the brawn, to get my hands dirty when he snaps his fingers. Comforting The Boss on his down swings is just a perk. I'll keep clothed for this. 

I pull the mirror to the foot of the bed, the one he'd tossed a pillow at earlier. He keeps those black eyes focused on me, disappointed in my lack of creativity. 

I don't care. 

I pull him onto my lap again, positioning him so that he's facing the mirror. It takes some maneuvering and patience, but I slip inside him, and he feels as sinful as he looks. When he's fully-seated on my clothed thighs, I nuzzle his neck to take in that scent once more. I run my fingers up his sides, teasing his nipples. He gasps, his back straightening in pleasure. He's adjusting to me inside him. God, he's gorgeous. 

I shiver at the sight of him in the mirror. "Everything about you makes my blood run hot, makes me feel like an animal. Perfect pale skin against those perfect, sensitive, pink nipples." I twist them, making him jolt. I pull him back onto me, keeping one hand on his hip. "Smooth, well-cared for skin, decadent," I breathe against his shoulder. "Had I seen you before I knew you, I would've thought you were a shy, kind boy with enough money to pamper himself on the weekends." I feel him shudder, his hips starting to rock gently back and forth to rub my cock over that one sweet spot. "Mm, but you're not, are you, Boss? You're a proper villain, gorgeous and psychotic, hiding behind an angel's physique." I buck my hips sharply to meet his own half-hearted pace. "And Boss?" 

His cheeks are turning pink with arousal. His tongue slides over his lips, dry from light panting. I want to bend him in half and fuck him like a rutting dog right now. "What?" he asks, trying to sound unaffected and failing miserably. 

I pinch his nipples until he lets out a small cry. "You pay me to kill those who insult you. Don't insult my Boss, James Moriarty, or I'll have to put you down." 

His laugh is breathy, the blush spreading from his cheeks to his neck to his chest. I paint his neck and shoulders with kisses as I lift his hips up, only to bring him down with double the force. And again. And again. He arches, alerting me that I've found a good angle. He bares that pink neck and I'm about to explode before we've even started. 

"Look at yourself," I growl, as I shove him down on my cock. "Look at what you're doing to me." His breathing is getting louder, more labored. "Feel how hard you make me." His cock, only a little smaller than mine, bobs against his belly, and my mouth waters. I tell him as much. 

With every praise, I can see the doubt melting away, see pride returning to the way he holds his shoulders. He becomes more vocal, his confidence morphing him back into that super-intelligent id that I admire. "And _this_ ," I stroke his balls, cock, and belly in one broad swipe, "is my favorite part of you. This is the side of you that you don't show anyone else but me. This," I grip his belly, "is mine." He's closed his eyes, enjoying the ride as I bring him down on my erection again and again. Unacceptable. I buck up into him, bringing his attention back to me. I meet his eyes in the mirror. "This beautiful body is all mine." 

He smirks like a cat relishing having his chin scratched. The Boss basks in my affections as I rut against. Into him. He tries to rock his hips back, but my grip on his hips is too tight. 

"You're fucking beautiful," I growl in his ear. He whimpers, and I can't take it anymore. "Say it, Boss. Tell me you're gorgeous." 

He mutters something, the light catching his spit-slicked lips and the bead of sweat on his temple. 

I bring him down harder, making him gasp again. "Eyes front, Boss," I bark. Those soulless black eyes meet their reflected counterparts. "Say it," I order him again. My blood is pounding in my ears. 

"I'm fucking gorgeous," he pants, his voice breaking when my cock swipes that bundle of nerves inside of him. "I'm gorgeous, and I'm yours." 

"Again!" 

I watch my boss build himself back up, and it's so fucking sexy. He repeats those words again and again until he devolves into simply shouting my name, cum spilling over that adorable little belly. I'm not far behind. I come hard inside him, fingers digging bruises into his hips. 

He falls back against my chest, trying to catch his breath. "I really should spend more time on the treadmill, Moran," he says, voice thick with exhaustion. 

"Nah," I counter. I pull out slowly, then situate him on his side so that I can curl against him, spooning against him like we're a proper couple who cuddle after sex. "Maybe just have fewer Swiss chocolates or whatever it is you got last night. At three in the morning." I place my hand on his tummy. He growls but doesn't push it away. 

The Boss is up five minutes later, calm, cool and collected. He's immune to the effects of post-coital reward chemicals, I suppose. Or maybe James Moriarty just doesn't sleep. 

"Up, tiger," he orders. There's a spring in his step as he redresses himself. "We've gotta soldier to kidnap."

**Author's Note:**

> Leave comments for +1 karma.


End file.
